


GYWO Bingo Ficlets

by Percygranger



Category: Fifth Element (1997), Original Work, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Description Porn, F/F, GYWO Bingo 2014, Gen, POV Experimental
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:31:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 8,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3556127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Percygranger/pseuds/Percygranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of very random, unconnected stories based on image prompts from Get Your Words Out Bingo in 2014. They range from the mundane to the fantastical, with a few snippets of fanfiction in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. SH BBC, The Adventure of the Photographer's Studio

John closes the door to the studio, leaving Sherlock to distract the (very male, very gay, very happy to have Sherlock’s attentions) clerk. The room is hushed, soundproofed, the only noises the faint hum of the A/C and the sweep of the curtain as John moves past. 

It’s a beautiful set up, a white corner light from above, the only contrast the slightly ridiculous umbrella lights, a delicate wire stool and some other type of light fixture on a stand were between them. 

John’s been to a place like this exactly twice. Once for a family photo right before Dad passed. Everyone had hated it, even Mum, who’d been the one to insist. The second time, well, he’d been there as moral support for the loser of a bet. Watching Jenkins get professional photos in skimpy lingerie was a memory that still made him stifle a giggle. The man should’ve known better than to bet against the best sniper in the camp. 

There’s a stand for a camera on the wood floor rising above the curving tile and concrete of the rest, a computer open on it, faint light radiating. John moves toward it to see what, if any photos are on display. 

Jackpot. 

Their client’s face is immediately visible, lips curved in a mischievous smirk, her dark bouffant of curls only strengthening that impression. The photo is open in an editing program. The background is different from what is currently set up: puffy gold fabric, obviously taken elsewhere. Her red dress is cut in a eye-catching vee that doesn’t actually reveal anything, square toggles holding the fabric together. Her arms sketch an open angle from chin to her modest bosom. 

But really, it’s the eyes that catch John’s eye. Last he’d seen her, she’d been worried and tired, dark circles starting to show, hair pinned back hastily. He clicks through the list of photos, each set revealing more and more skin, her expression growing more and more shuttered. Definitely what they are looking for. 

He closes the machine and takes it off the stand. A hasty search yields no cameras, but from what the clerk had said, the only copies will be here and in the email account of their suspect. John trusts Sherlock will be able to figure out the mechanical aspects, but he hopes nothing is online. The internet is forever, indeed.

Shoving the computer in a bag, John takes a breath before he heads to the door. Time to go. He slips out slowly, giving Sherlock time to spot him and up his chatter if necessary. 

They manage it, the clerk rapt in his flirtatious attentions. As John approaches, Sherlock’s eyes flick to his. John nods, a small subtle gesture, and Sherlock wraps up, handing the young man a card, leaning in a bit too close. 

“Time to go, _darling_ ,” John says, just to see the looks it produces. The clerk looks rapidly between them, hand moving to hide the card. Sherlock smirks, directing it at the clerk. “Perhaps I’ll see you later?” 

John rolls his eyes, grabs Sherlock’s arm, and pulls him away, not acknowledging the object of his ‘boyfriend’s’ attentions. 

Once outside, John sends a speculative look Sherlock’s way. “I expected you to dump him, is he...interesting?”

“He has connections, and we might be back. Cover, John. It’s important.”

“Riiiight.”


	2. Concerted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few perspectives at a rock concert.

“And then we will DIE…!” The singer finished her note (and scream), head banging as the guitars and drums took over. 

The crowd surged, mostly in time to the music. The energy of the band and the concert-goers, all participating in this ritual of sound and movement, was almost palpable. The scent of sweat, dark cigarette smoke with hints of sweet marijuana lingered, combined with the closeness of the people crowded shoulder to shoulder to create the unmistakable experience that was a live performance. 

Sometimes the movement felt random, someone pushing through the crowd towards or away from the stage, on a singular mission. Sometimes it was a concerted effort: a wave, one person sparking a movement far greater than themselves. 

A blond-haired person in a leather jacket jumped, moving in time with the beat, medium length hair flying as the people around him paid little attention, bar a few who watched with blank, worried eyes. They landed and jumped, again and again, the sound of their voice subsumed under the roar of the crowd, the wall of noise that the speakers created. Their lips moved, though, shaping every word with obsessive fervor. 

It was a good place to be a fanatic. The right time, the right song. Eventually, tired from their exertion, the blonde jumped one last time, pitching forward into waiting hands. They surfed, a beatific expression on their face as they traveled towards the stage in a wandering, indirect fashion, the hands under them beyond knowledge of where they’d go next.

They landed a mere three people away from the edge, the singer dancing athletically as she crooned harsh lullabies into the microphone. The movement sparked the blond fan back into motion, feet and arms coordinating in a dance that encouraged, nearly egged her on. Noticing the new arrival, the singer smiled, never missing a note. They soared on the energy of people, of the place, together, united in song.

The beat changed, eventually, slowing to a soft lullaby, a whispered list of the pains love causes. Hair swung back and forth, a pendulum led by a body, shaken by the steps of the booted feet below it. There was time to for a drink, to let the sweat cool, before another song began. The singer calls out, naming herself, her bandmates, the band. She thanks the crowd for their attendance, enthusiasm, money, and the listeners (participants) scream themselves hoarse, hands clapping to the point of pain. One last song, upbeat, and they cede the stage to another band, the main attraction.

The blonde haired, leather jacketed fan drifts away after that, not particularly interested in this new genre. He follows the singer’s mates to their table, where bright conversations are being held, voices straining to be heard above the noise from the speakers. Money changes hands, and CDs, shirts, posters are the rewards. The smiles of the band seem to mean more to the buyers, though. They depart, promising to return. No longer concerted, but still together.


	3. Polar Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Er, polar bear POV? It's random and terrible, but in the interest of completedness, here it is.

The water is so cold there’s no word for it. It sheets over the skin like fluid ice, freezing from the outside in. 

Or it would, if I were human. I’d drown, system locked up, shocked and then frozen to stillness. Preserved to perhaps be found by others someday. Or maybe a predator would nibble away at me until I was gone, no skin, just bones... A motionless example of what not to do to survive.

But I am not human (maybe I was once). In this day, this age, I am a bear. My skin is covered by hollow, air-filled fur, insulation of the best kind “mother nature” provides, through the stumbling, random progress of evolution.

I push through the water, claws catching on bits of ice that float on the top, slicing uselessly through liquid. The pads of my paws barely feel the cold, used to it. I huff, heading for “shore”, more ice. The prey is gone for today. I will return tomorrow for another attempt at food, protein, survival. Tonight I go, mouth and stomach empty of sustenance, back to where I shelter. I am lucky that no cubs depend on me for their own survival. It’s happened before. Thankfully, most have survived.

My claws dig into the almost sheer face of the iceberg, giving me friction, traction, a “handhold”: leverage to haul myself out of the frigid water. I shake, the water splattering in all directions, just another layer of ice soon. But it goes away from me, that’s the important part.

The ice crunches under my paws. I walk, lumber, crawl at a steady pace, ice extending into snow into more ice, the only way to mark your place is scent and memory. It’s nothing unusual, if you grow up in it, but deadly and confusing for those from warmer climes. 

I see them, sometimes, usually in the distance. Strange, small not-bears. They wear the skins of other animals, or of no animal, it’s sometimes hard to tell by smell. I’m certainly not getting near them. They leave me alone, and that’s fine by me. Although sometimes I do wonder what in skies they are doing with their strange dark rocks. They smell strange. They have weird food too, don’t ask how I know.

I arrive back at my den, and dig in, readying myself for another night. The ice insulates almost as well as my fur, used properly.

They watch seals too, I’ve seen. They hurt but don’t kill the ones they get close to, attaching more, different not-rocks to their hide. The smell of blood is tempting, but I am often full, returning to my den. 

The not-bears get closer every time I sleep, don’t think I don’t notice. I’m not sure of their intentions. They don’t smell of my kind, they don’t eat us/me. Their wide eyes, their whirring buzzing not-rocks...they want something. I don’t know what, and I don’t care, as long as they stay away.

But they don’t.


	4. Indoor Voices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An attempt at multiple POVs, again, posting for completeness' sake.

“And of course we’ll cover you for the entire term as laid out in the contract…” John checks his partner’s progress at the printer with brief glance, still several pages left. “Do you have any concerns I can address? Any questions? We pride ourselves on customer service here. No man or woman left behind.” He grins at his own joke. 

The lady across from him smiles politely in response. “I’m glad to hear that. The last place we tried to contract out to wasn’t nearly as hands on. I have to say, I prefer the personal touch.”

“As do I, as do I… Ah, Lydia, thank you.” John accepted the papers from his colleague. Lydia smiled, nodded to both of them, and headed back to her cubicle. 

*&*&*

Lydia managed to hold her expression fixed until she’d turned her back on John and the customer he was schmoozing at. Good god, what a prick. Lydia was heartily glad she wasn’t in the woman’s place. John would be asking her out within the hour, Lydia was sure. 

Why she’d taken this job (and been reduced to copying papers for someone not even in her part of the office, good lord) was one of the bigger mysteries of her life. Thank god she had a few sheafs to staple. It wasn’t good for much else but getting the anger out, but Lydia had plenty of that. She managed a tight grin of anticipation as she passed through the open blue doors back to her area, hopefully fooling the new guy on the phone in the corner.

*&*&*

“Okay, I turned it on again...oh, it’s fixed!” 

_“That’s excellent news, sir, is there anything else?”_ The ‘you utter idiot, please let me get back to my real job’ was implied, Jose was sure. 

“Oh no, er, thanks. Sorry, it’s my first week.” Jose turned in his chair, casually checking to see if anyone was watching. No, no, and no. Praise Mary. 

_“Have a nice day.”_ The phone clicked with the gentle but very final hangup on the other end of the line. Jose felt his face compress in a parody of a smile, an automatic reaction to humiliation.

A more unfamiliar lady than usual walked past, heading to the door, done with her copying. Apparently John (or was it James?) had sweet-talked her into helping him. Jose needed to figure out how he did that, it seemed like a helpful skill to have. Weirdly, even with John pushing his more boring tasks on other people, everyone seemed to actually do work here. Karen was also on the phone, papers in hand. She shared an office with Melinda, who seemed forever pissed off about something. He swivelled back to his computer; might as well do his best to fit in. 

*&*&*

“We’ve got several more problems to get to after this, can we please just write down our current fixes and move on?” 

Melinda tried her best to ignore the content, if not the actual sounds of Karen’s conversation. Why the powers that be had deigned to put them in an office together, Melinda would never know. She huffed and rearranged her papers again, trying to make them make sense. Someone was definitely missing something here, and it might be her. God, she hated HR work.


	5. Fifth Element, Rooftops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leeloo looks out on the city from an unusual perspective.

Leeloo looked out on the city, secure in her perch on top of a tall building. The noise was distant here: sirens and traffic and noise from all the people fading to a background of bustle. Leeloo sniffed inquisitively, mildly surprised that it even smelled slightly better than usual. The scents of burnt oil, sewage, the sheer press of people, scattered to the wind this high up. 

It was a cloudy day, the natural fog rolling in and mixing with the inevitable smoke that cities all seemed to produce. The light of the setting sun peeked through cracks in the clouds, limning the buildings with gold. 

Squinting, Leeloo made a square with her fingers, zooming in on just a small part of what she could see. It was easier to take in small doses, with a bit of imagination. The small flying ships, taxis, personal crafts, business vehicles, and the occasional cop car turned into bugs zooming along, or flowers, with their wings dramatically lighted petals. The pointed caps of a factory’s outbuildings became a row of puppets, waiting mischievously for their cue. 

Some of the more angular buildings, lines crawling between and around the prematurely lighted windows, looked like skeletons, skulls that people repurposed as dwellings. (Did they have the lights on in anticipation of the night? Or did they never turn them out? Leeloo wouldn’t be surprised at the latter being true. People here didn’t seem to have a firm concept of waste management, whether it was from light, energy, food, or otherwise)

The open walkways between the buildings were filled with people. Shift change always did that, creating traffic. The people truly did look like ants from this height, small dots that moved with unknown purposes. Hurrying somewhere, anywhere. Sometimes Leeloo thinks that the strangest thing to be here would be a person who didn’t work, didn’t move. Someone who stopped to look at their surroundings, and appreciated the view they saw every day. 

But then, she knew she was odd. She relished being out and about when the walkways are deserted. As lively as the presence of other people is, she can’t use that energy like some can. If anything, people take it from her, in a strange process she imagines is like a cell balancing itself inside its environment. 

She was internally powered: a self-contained unit that didn’t mesh well with the majority of the population. The thought made her chuckle and sit back on the roof, gritty dirt moving under her feet. Leeloo is happy to be far above the city, making up fanciful thoughts that she cannot share without strange looks; being called an aimless dreamer. 

She rose, dusting herself off. Maybe Dallas would be home soon. If not, there’s always chicken to eat, words to learn. space to fill. Maybe they’d go out to the country again, and she could make fun of how very uncomfortable the open spaces and live animals made her partner. Leeloo nodded. Yes, this was a good plan.


	6. Field Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt image was of a meadow filled with flowers, I'm not sure how I got to this from there.

The sound of giggling splashes through the air; a young girl running and jumping through the flowers with delight, making them vibrate with her passage, the physical expression of joy. 

Her blue dress matches the lighter petals, the fabric rippling with the breeze of her movements. Her shiny black shoes stomping, compressing the dirt as she kicks off and lands, scaring away the animals that live underground. Full of seemingly boundless energy, her face is blissful as she flies, suspended a bare second or two before the Earth pulls her back down. 

Eventually she collapses, tumbling willingly into the embrace of green leaves and dark soil, panting in time with her racing heart. 

The world looks different from inside the flower field, the light speckled green. She doesn’t have to squint, although the waving plants reveal tiny pieces of sun, speckling her face, making her squint. The petals still quickly enough, arrayed towards the sun like satellite dishes. 

She wants to swim here, make an angel in the dirt, her hands grasping stems and pulling herself along. She settles in, though, the hard ground feeling as soft as a feather bed, welcoming her in warmly. 

She falls asleep for she doesn’t know how long, the sun moving toward the other side of the sky. Wakes to hear her name being called, and sprints back home, body bent forward, purposeful, revelling in her speed, the wind on her face, made just for her, just by her. She leaves the soft scent of lilac and dixie bells behind, trailing the scent at least a little while, and goes to see what new joy there is to take in the world.

*&*&*&*

It takes years for her to return, taller and more sedate. The field is remarkably the same, not eaten by pavement or razed of flowers. The blue bells remain, have returned the same way she does. 

The flower still shiver as she passes by and through them, her steps careful, her skirt split into blue jeans. She remembers the joy of old passings, the incredible feeling of running just to fly faster over the ground. Her shoes are brown this time, matte, worn leather she’s owned for longer than she’d been alive as a child. 

It takes several quiet minutes to reach the edge of the flowers, where the grass takes over, the ground steepling up into rude ridges. She climbs the low hill, dune, whatever you’d like to call it, and settles down to watch the sun set, turning away from the shaped metal that she’d called home. 

The wind blows, soft and warm against her skin, tugging at her white cotton shirt, pushing through to remind her skin of its presence. She digs her hands into the cool green grass below, scraping dirt under her nails to clean out later. Discarding her shoes, her feet given the same autonomous feeling she so often grants her hands. She wants something to remind her of this place after she leaves, one last time.


	7. SH BBC, Interior Design

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John and at least one more awkward misunderstanding.

“Your...partner? He’s a charmer. You’re very lucky.” The compliment is genuine, offered with all the faith of the young and easily misled.

John smiles awkwardly and does nothing that could be construed as a confirmation or denial, hiding behind his teacup. 

“Who did your bathroom?” Sherlock returns, step jaunty with expertly feigned charm. “It’s a masterpiece of design, I have to say.”

John hides a grimace as their host, a young woman who seems to have taken to suburbia and all its attendant keeping up with the neighbors very seriously, titters, pleased, and offers a name. 

“Lee Rarity. She’s a local designer. Has an excellent eye, don’t you think? 

Sherlock’s eyes flash at the information, and he immediately begins to make a hasty retreat. “Oh yes, the balance of the elements… Well, it’s been a wonderful time, but we really must be going. John has a very important appointment.” 

“Oh, must you? I know we’ve not been discussing the most interesting topics - murder is just so boring, really - but I’d love to have you stay for dinner.”

“Perhaps another time, Mrs Nottingham,” John hastens to say, doing his best to stay on his feet as he is almost literally dragged away. “Lovely meeting you!”

Sherlock drops back to his usual self five steps after she closes the door, shoulders changing subtly, manic grin replaced by pursed lips and narrowed eyes. “God, what an utter bore...” 

John shakes his head reprovingly. “So, what was so interesting about the bathroom?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock replies, sneering. “It was the blandest bit of interior planning I’ve ever had the displeasure of laying my eyes on. But, it did show recent signs of over-eager scrubbing, bleach.” He grinned at John, sly. “Mrs Nottingham may be a sucker for nice things, but a thorough cleaner she is not. Husband’s away for the week, so she has no reason to do so unless-” 

John takes up the thread, “Affair or...she’s the murderer? Doesn’t seem like the type.” 

“Murder doesn’t have a type, everyone is capable. Now all we need is a bit of proof…” Sherlock clapped his hands. “She’s destroyed the traces in her home, so we’ll have to look outside it. A nice little challenge.”


	8. Desert Meditation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A description of a place I've never been.

Dust is easy to underestimate. Small, dry particles of earth. Individually they are nothing. But when you live in a dry place, you begin to see their impact. The way they swirl, obscuring vision, prickling your lungs. It clings to skin, to hair, to the metal shell of the car you drive. Dust is inevitable, literally. You cannot ever truly get away from it when you live in a dry place. It haunts the air like a neutral agent of chaos, easy to see as evil.

Asthmatics don’t last long in the desert. The dust bad enough without mountainous, thin air on top of it. Imagine climbing up, exerting yourself to reach a less hospitable place. Imagine doing that when your very lungs have a tendency to seize up from minor irritation, locking down tight until you can’t breathe. Asthmatics don’t last long in the desert.

Dust storms are the worst part of living here. Take the tons of loose dirt and fling it into the air, swirling in masses. Impenetrable to the eye, frightening to the ear, you don’t want to be outside in one, that’s for sure. Getting lost is the least of your worries. Your skin stinging like it’s being scraped off, the flesh of your mouth, your throat, your lungs, lodged with dust, dirtied and dried out. It’s not the same as breathing smoke, perhaps, but it’s not pleasant, not a thing people experience willingly. When dust storms come, the people stay inside, in their houses and cars, protected from the wind, the air filtered and calm. 

Rain is the best thing about the desert. So rare as to be a myth sometimes, it tempts plants and animals out of hiding that refuse to sprout and spring otherwise. It wakes up the hibernating frogs, tempts the cactus flowers, the hard-scrabble grasses. The water calms the dust for a time, weighing it down pleasantly. But it never stays. That’s why this is a desert. The desert. Water is the scarcest commodity there is.

But the ground is not all there is here. The sky is nearly as important. Deceptively calm and blue, shape-shifting clouds whisk across, now a bird, next a bovine, then a shapeless form even human eyes cannot make into something else. Vapor in the atmosphere is nearly as scarce as on the ground.

In this particular desert, there are mountains. Bare rock rising above the rest, shoved into place by earthquakes, left unadorned by plants or snow. They leave bare to the eye the history of the world, rings and layers of rock turning from dust brown to deep, murky gray, then vibrant red. And back again. The world turns, the seasons change, the epochs shift, and the ground records it all faithfully. 

Of course, the mountains cannot escape the dust either, and it is piled high against the sides, obscuring the proud marks of survival, the record set in stone. But that is just another way the ground does its job. Those grains on the bottom, weighed down by its brethren, will become another layer, another entry. And so it goes.


	9. Kitchen Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of a new business is a heady one.

“This will do nicely,” I said, surveying the kitchen. It was set up for at least four people, with two sets of burners and two ovens, vent hoods arcing above in a reverse metallic mountain. Gleaming silver, the main theme of the place, extended into counters along the wall, easy places for storing and preparing food. Empty, clean tools were stacked below and above, in probably logical places. 

“Well, Jiria, what do you think?” I asked, turning to my compatriot. 

“Spacious enough for our crew,” she confirmed. “And a prime location, we’re lucky. Now if the price is right…” 

I grinned. “Don’t worry, that part is taken care of. Our restaurant will be magnificent.” I caught her hand in mine.

She smiled at me. “It certainly will.”

“Just think! During breakfast shift the sous chef will be slicing thick, crunchy crusted Italian loaves, while the chef takes them out of the egg, putting them in the pan with a seductive sizzle…” I expound, gesturing to the nearest burner setup.

“And in the oven, bacon will be slowing crisping,” Jiria replies, taking up the thread. 

“Eggs will be stirred on the other stove, clumping so beautifully and yellow, quickly slid off to a plate, where it will be garnished with cheese - white, creamy, oh so meltable cheese - and a sprig of something green. Because we can.” I grin.

Jiria’s eyes crinkle, and she gestures to the gleaming side tables. “And for dinner, it will smell like roasting meat as meat loaf and roasts are slooowly cooked, green beans and mashed potatoes-”

“-with just a kick of spice-” I add.

“-complementing it like they were made for each other.”

“Because they were.” 

“And when it’s over, and everyone is done for the night. The dishes will be washed and dried, hung up again, stainless steel gleaming, copper burnished, wood damp but drying. We’ll all decamp, head home to make ourselves one last meal.” 

I brought her hand to my lips. “We certainly shall. What do you think, grilled cheese? Spaghettios?” 

She laughed as my lips skimmed her soft skin, and swatted at me lightly with her free hand. “I demand at least one real food item at the table.” 

“String cheese it is, your highness.” 

Her giggle was like a soap bubble rising in the air, mesmerizing in its facets, ready to pop at any moment. But the one that it existed in was a tiny space for perfection. A moment in time one may forget the exact details of (just what notes did she hit, again?) but never the feeling. We were here, on the edge of something terrifying and great, and whatever the future might hold, we we had this to hold on to.

She caught my hand and reeled me in, faces too close for our eyes to focus, exhales hot against skin. “Just you wait,” she breathed. “The first night we finish up I’m going to pull out two dollar frozen pizza bagels just to see the look on your face.” 

“I look forward to it, darling mine.” Weirdly, I meant it. I wasn’t a complete food snob, but god, I hated frozen bread. Still, the thought of our future, together, trumped any extraneous element to me.

“I just bet you do.” Her tone was happily resigned, and then her lips were the soft-rough against mine that I loved. 

We sealed our fate then and there, I feel, with a teasing, tender kiss, better than any signature on a contract. It wasn’t now until forever, but it was enough.


	10. A Bridge in Autumn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A personal set of feelings on experience, travel, and the paths we take.

The air was crisply cold, nearly hurting my lungs as I alternated between a walk and heavy jog up the path. It was autumn, the leaves bright as they died, making space for the winter. My vision was filled with reds, oranges, yellows, set off by the dark shadows, filled in with the medium grey brown tones of the trees and gravel of the path I followed. 

I reached a small covered bridge. The roof made a rustic, pleasing silhouette, the green paint worn at the edges, extending into a fence on either side. My footsteps slowed to give myself time to appreciate the view. That was what I was here for, after all. 

The rustle and crunch beneath my feet faded as I stopped in the middle of the bridge, watching the dark shallow water flow down, beneath my feet. The burble was faint, only the slightly splash of water marking its passage. The smell of rotting vegetation was stronger here, a mildly unpleasant smell, countered by the hints of rain to come, the freshness of the evergreens. 

I’ve been places like this before many times, although it’s my first time here, exactly. Wandering tame paths with family and friends is an old pastime, and it’s the only reason I’m so comfortable here alone. Well, that and the bright orange and white sign warning against...something. I didn’t read it. Trespassers? Bridge hoppers? 

I leaned against the rough, worn, wood, arms locking to hold me up. I’d always wondered what would happen if I did more than pass through places like this. Was more than an occasional visitor to the beauty of nature. My mouth curled in a smirk. Me, a mountain man, what a dream to have. But I could see it, nearly taste it on days like today. 

Buried in a warm coat made of many furs I’d killed and skinned and tanned myself, walking away from the paths, pack mounted on my back, stick in hand. Would I wear boots or moccasins? Take a knife or a gun? Camp in a tent or find a cave? I might build a cabin, even. It would probably be harder than I imagined, hunting and gathering, chopping wood for fires every night, having to do most things myself. Would I last a month? 

I hop up on the fencing, settling myself, wood a wide, solid presence under my thighs, legs kicking out above the sluggish water below. My breath slows as I take the time to notice it, a brief meditation on embodiment. My legs get cold, although not nearly as bad as my half-gloved hands, fingers exposed to the air.

Chuckling at myself, I push off, legs swinging back over the fence. I acknowledge the ever-present feeling of leaving too soon, and keep moving, my feet adjusting as I leave wood for gravel and the occasional leaf. It’s a childhood habit to hunch inside my collar at the wind, pretending to be the lone wanderer, but I shake it off and fall into a jog, feet heavy against the ground. A squirrel chitters somewhere in the woods, and I am folded back into the reds and oranges, just another shadow, crunching my way back home.


	11. Red Dwarf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An exploration of a new form of life.

We’ve always thought of fire as cleansing, and something that kills, but what if that wasn’t true elsewhere?

What if, caught in the orbit of a red dwarf, the coils of glowing matter-energy wafting near it with deadly grace, nearer than we’d dare to approach, or consider safe, a planet existed with life. The people there don’t look like us, with our protective space suit of skin that lives and feels. There the basic state of matter is liquid, constantly reforming into shapes that are of use to the consciousness guiding it. 

The landscape shows the signs of this same metamorphosis cliffs of melted and reformed rock, constantly on fire somewhere, gases escaping. The crackle and hiss of it, spiraling down a guided to form ear, the comforting sounds of normality. The people there melt into the landscape, or build themselves upon it, shaping a crust that might mimic our own forms, or those of our nightmares, our myths.

Their forms tend towards dichotic smoothness and spikes, into bulges built into attenuated, stretching rock. If we could see them, we’d call them devils, misshapen and disturbingly beautiful. 

They merge into the landscape at the ends of themselves, given no choice by the overwhelming, punishing heat. Something so hot we’d need a new word for it, if we could imagine surviving it. We produce water to cool ourselves, and vaporize, burn. These beings simply melt under the onslaught. If they burn, it is those elements they offer up to the sun.

They move, infinitesimally, building each drop of themselves forward, or all at once, braving the currents of lava that break the surface, hoping for another in a place they recognize. The electromagnetic currents, a modicum of heat, the very formation of the kinds of rock they manifest, their shape, under their control. 

What is their purpose? What is the point of life? It is to live, to continue despite the odds against it. They join with each other, unconscious, connected by the flows of lava. Perhaps they know that the end will come, same as it will for humanity, the sun expanding past the parameters needed to support this form of life. But the nature of life is fleeting. They might live for hundreds, thousands of our years (although how do you measure a consciousness, track it under the crust of a burnt planet?) but they are there, even if it is only in our imagination. 

Their senses (we cannot call them eyes, cannot track nerves in their skin of hardened minerals) surely know there is more to the universe than their own being/planet/consciousness. The puckered moon being as surely, as slowly destroyed as their own, it must emit light, energy. Perhaps it is the reformed effect of their space effort, caught in orbit. 

Can it be, that if they decided to take to space, they become the very meteorites we covet for their resources? Can you imagine the oddity that would be travel in the cold void after existing so close to a star? 

From the smallest stack of charcoaled magmite to the largest, graceful mounds (mountains), this is life. Don’t doubt the surge in their created veins. The heat of creation. It holds, it flows. And for all we know, the center of the planet, so crushed in its own gravity, is itself the oldest of these.


	12. Jungle Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the only requirements for this challenge is a minimum wordcount of 500 for each story. This was my way of meeting that.

“The jungle is claustrophobic. The heat and humidity combine to make it feel as though you are breathing hot soup, each breath a labor. Your skin is coated in it, mixing with your sweat as you move through the underbrush. And those same conditions make things grow, everywhere, on everything. Vines twine over themselves, around trees, over and through the canopy, creating the canopy. Trees, dead or alive, are covered with moss, infested with flowers, bugs, and birds. Their roots are exposed, branching down into the dry, sandy soil. 

It is raucous, the calls of birds, monkeys, and insects clashing, creating a level of noise one doesn’t expect in the imagining of a forest or most natural scenes. Frogs peep and croak, soprano and bass undertones to the tenor and rising shrieks of mammals and birds. The bugs buzz and hum, wings beating faster than the eye can follow, legs rubbing like a violin bow across its strings. 

Travel is difficult in the jungle, even with a machete to hack through vines and thin branches, the tall grass, clearing the way. The ground is uneven, with bare roots ready to trip the unwary and the hurried. The world is dangerous, full of life that lives off of other life. There are few vegetarians in a jungle. And even the herbivores are just waiting for the bodies to decompose, the nutrients becoming part of their diet.

Even the rivers are not safe, their fast roiling waters quick to catch unsteady feet, pulling them down to drown and feed the fish. 

If you go there, I can only wish you good luck.“

An excerpt from Gaila Moergi’s monologue describing her journeys into the Amazon jungle: Seeking Silence.

*&*&*

She hacks through the underbrush, rhythm steady as the sweat falling in tears down her face. Slash, step, slash, step. She doesn’t ignore her surroundings. Rather, she is ardently aware of them: the sounds of her own passage silencing at least part of the inhabitants, perhaps attracting others. Total silence is something she keeps an ear focused for, a sign that something bigger and badder than her is near. 

But even if the noises of birds and monkeys die, the buzz of insects is constant, something you can’t escape in the jungle. She’d sprayed herself with environmentally unfriendly repellent this morning, just as she had her entire journey through the landscape. It doesn’t stop all of them, but not using any would be much worse. 

She stops beside a moss-covered tree, the ropey roots exposed in all their strength, their mesmerizing curves mimicking the river she follows. The canteen she drinks from has gone warm, body and outside temperature matching closely enough that she’s not sure which the fluid has succumbed to. It doesn’t matter, truly, beyond the bare fact of having water she can trust.

After her thirst is sated, she takes a deep breath. The stench of the jungle has become the norm now: rotting plants providing fuel for the others, animal droppings (including her own) mixing with the rich swampy mud. It’s a vibrant smell, the high sweet notes of tropical flowers making it almost bearable when she passes by them. 

She is mentally composing the next passage of her book as she holsters her canteen, checks her compass, picks up her machete, and begins moving again. Slash, step, slash, step. The rhythm is important, energy-efficient, and it’s very good for thinking. 

Slash, step, slash, step. She sets her ears to listen for silence. If she’s noticed, approached, caught, it won’t be unawares. She may not be the most dangerous being in the jungle, but she’s survived long enough to know how to keep it that way.


	13. Diner in the Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An agonizingly detailed description of a diner.

The diner is deserted, every surface disconcertingly clean. The vinyl stool tops gleam under the warm glowing lights inset into orderly lines on the ceiling. The colors are charmingly mismatched. Pastel blue and pink tiling doesn’t quite jar with the lipstick red vinyl of the stools, the pink pulling to red if stared at. The dark metal of the stools fades into the background, uneasy, while the tops flash a gaudy silver. 

The curving lines and overwhelming hints of red almost bring it together, this scene of nostalgia and greasy food, at least at ground level. But follow the (white, brown?) poles inset into the ends of the too-red booths and the ceiling is a warm yellow and wood brown, sickly when competing against saturated red. The above straight-lines into curves, edged in a darkish metal that has no complement elsewhere. The menu sticks out above the table surrounding the exposed kitchen, its white text on a dramatic black background, the harsh diagonaled and un-gentled corners of it demanding attention. 

In this visual cacophony, it’s easy to miss the puke yellow brown linoleum of the floor and countertops, another attempt to bring the clashing colors to some sort of harmony. It fails. The bluer red pulses inside its hall of waspish paper yellow and false wooded brown. The tiling is sickly sweet, rotten cotton candy that fails to deliver on its promise, cheerful when taken alone, strange when considered with its neighboring colors.

The next day, the colors are easy to dismiss in favor of people watching. 

One customer sits on a stool, hat cocked at a rakish angle over their eyes, legs clad in dark hosiery, feet shaped by heels. Their broad chest is proudly outlined in a tailored jacket, silky shirt under it drawing the eye in teasingly. A plump leg swings lazily, absent movement as they sip a mug filled with dark liquid. Keen eyes stare far away, boring into the wall, the distance of the focus measuring how far inside their head they are. 

Occasionally they look up, out on the world, brandishing a pencil against a notebook page, scribbling a few words in a curved scrawl.

Customers and staff bustle quietly, there is quiet conversation, silverware clinking against plates and bowls, the loudest sound the scrape of the cook’s spatula against the cooktop as she flips eggs, pancakes, bacon, and toast neatly over and, when it’s ready, onto plates. The waitresses pick it up from there, sending it out into the restaurant like a satellite on an elliptical course, forever in cycle. 

A waitress brings the customer their food, breakfast foods cheerfully cozying up to each other on the ceramic. The notebook and pencil go into a bag, making space for the meal. They thank her and eat with every evidence of appreciation, lips closing around each bite carefully, eyes occasionally dipping with pleasure. Money changes hands, soft, gracious words, and the encounter ends with a generous tip left on the table.

The customer leaves, broad shoulders and thin hips twisting in their skirt as their heels click on the tile, a smile touching their lips, satisfied.


	14. Description Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A jarring recourse into the author's POV, experimental.

The picture is big enough to be in three pieces vertically, at least it looks that way on my screen; it’s a tough one for me to write about, although I could easily tell you of the way the bolts in the wooden frame look like blue dots, mistakes in the picture...and I could mention how the lopped off top of the structure reminds me of nothing more than a stereotypical log cabin, the planks shaped into gentle half curves reminiscent of split logs, the water-stained insides revealed by the angle, otherwise so well done, framing-wise; 

the picture doesn’t split perfectly into two, horizontally; there’s wild greenery at the top, in the background: a multitude of trees, evergreens and deciduous species tumbling into one another, the different hues of green (some leaves yellow with caught light, some darkened and blue in the shadows, striped through with irregular black branches), and yet it is tamed by the tiny corner of the “log cabin” roof, as the viewer is reminded that this place is inhabited by humans, invaded, infested, the landscape shaped with our apparent obsession for square corners and the insides of these living organisms; 

it only gets worse as I scroll down: on one imperfectly divided side there are the fat square planks tacked together with metal screws, platforms connected by a drawbridge that is, of course, safely hemmed in with more planks; when looking at the picture as a whole, it is easy to dismiss the disruptive background of chain link fence, the gray posts echoing the placement of the play structure, but zoomed in it is obvious this is something to remove in the post-edits; on the other side a startlingly bright red and blue slide erupts, distracting from the dark green monkey bars, only seen in a difficult angle; the light shines off a few as though they’re made of gold;

I cannot tell for certain whether this is a picture taken at sunrise or sunset, although it feels later in the day for whatever reason; perhaps it is obvious to state that the playground is empty here, deserted except for the person behind the camera, but I can see - in the bottom third of the picture - the indentations left by small feet, among stones and twigs scattered in the sand; the eye is led beautifully to the ground by many things: the slide, the steps, chain-linked planks of wood meant to challenge balance and provide a bit of fun to rambunctious, daring youngsters; there’s a walkway (a sidewalk?) that snakes along the side of the play area, helping mark out the boundaries, and giving children yet another surface to skin a knee on, although perhaps it protects the grass from getting pulled up by the handful, and looking raggedy to judgemental parental gazes; 

unexpectedly, there are bright green weeds growing where the slide ends, cheerful native plants using what tiny amounts of space they are allowed; following the slide back up, it’s a delight to be led by the gentle curve of the drawbridge, but then one is dumped back to the ground by ugly black tires diagonally set, creating another way up to the second platform; the impression of ugliness is not helped by the rusting beige piece of metal set between the legs, apparently to prevent ambitious children from crawling under that particular place; it refuses to match the rest, and the eye avoids it, drawn to the gaudy red curves of the slide, the cozy peak of the roof, the seductive dip of the drawbridge; no place can’t be all good, but nevertheless, it looks delightful, and I am drawn, as always, by the call to go and play.


	15. A History of Pictures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Historical re-enactment is not a boring job.

“Just a bit more...and almost...there!” The photographer held out a hand, and everyone on the street froze, from the woman carrying a child, the youngling’s hair covered by a white kerchief, to the men in suits and hats. The old T-series cars idling in the middle of the street were a perfect crowning touch.

The click of the camera was barely audible as the photographer snapped several in a row. “Okay, thank you everyone! Continue on as you were.” Hand waving in a vaguely circular motion, the man released his subjects. 

The people milled about in their areas, old-fashioned, generally fancy clothes matching the steep roofs and wide window-fronts of this particular preserved street. The ends of it taped off, the street was empty except for the cars, now situated to the side, and large vans full of tourists that rolled through at prescribed intervals. The actors chatted with one another when they met, paying no attention to the out-of-place, too modern vehicles as they passed, full of staring faces and phones held up to record the spectacle. 

“Where have you been this summer? I haven’t heard a thing from you!” Paprika exclaimed, fanning herself with a black lace fan. It was warm out, and the layers upon layers required for her costume trapped all the heat. She had never wondered about women fainting since the first time she’d worn a corset and period dress. 

Fanny shifted her baby, adorable in his white bonnet, from one hip to the other. “Just getting along, dear, babies make it hard to socialize!” 

“She’s talking about you, isn’t she?” Paprika directed her remark at the babe, then turned back to his adult companion. “Your little one is as cute as can be, what’s his name?” 

“Liam, after his grandad.” 

“Traditional,” the black-clad lady nodded approvingly. “This makes for three now, is that right?” 

Fanny nodded. “Kate is five and Reilly is three. Both of them terrors, but they dote on their new brother.”

Paprika laughed. “Something to be grateful for while it lasts! I certainly didn’t enjoy my younger siblings all the time. Even now they get on my nerves, although being adults with lives of our own helps.” 

“Yes, I’ve seen that with Forest’s brothers and sisters. Some days I envy them for simply having siblings, other days I’m very glad I never did!” Fanny widened her eyes, shaking her head comically at the idea.

The ladies laughed, and Fanny nodded, body language shifting past her companion. 

“Well, I think it’s time for another round, my dear. I’ll be seeing you again later today, I sure?”

“Of course, we’re here all day. Forest is behind the scenes, ready to take Liam when he falls asleep. The girls are coming after school.” 

“Excellent, excellent! Enjoy your stroll…”

“I will, and yourself.”

Paprika moved on, red curls bouncing as they emerged from their captivity at her neck. She moved carefully down the street, each step placed with precision. The slow parade was both for show and out of necessity. Taxing her body in this getup was a self-defeating gesture, sweat and body heat building up until they were nigh-unbearable. Besides which, she had limited breath in her corset. So she moved with apparent dignity, and genteel slowness. She raised a hand, her mouth forming a polite smile at those she passed, only stopping for short times to chat with those she recognized, or wished to know better. 

She was familiar with almost everyone who came out to the yearly demonstration by now, it was true, but she’d always been selective in those she truly became friends with. Fanny was a great example of someone she truly admired. Spinster as she was, Paprika enjoyed the insights into married life, complete with children. She enjoyed playing the maiden aunt in reality, and widowed elder in this little fantasy world. 

It was funny how a simple agreement created this bubble of a different time, costumes and manner and the authentic reality of the streets all merging into something extraordinary. Bringing back the past was a marvelous thing, even if they never truly wished to live there. Paprika restrained her grin, and kept walking down the street.


	16. Ice Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A landscape.

The air is filled with ice, the feel of it spiky and crystalline, enough to hurt the inside of one’s throat on the inhale. The landscape sparkles with a thick icing of snow, the miniature icicles on the tree branches above matching the ground like earrings to a necklace. 

It’s almost alien, the hush in the air, the angle of the branches. A familiar landscape turned into science fiction with the addition of gleaming white, smooth and dappled across the uneven planes of this rocky piece of land. Snow lays in waves across the tops of the miniature cliffs, speckling down the sides like an uneven shave. There is a tiny pond. The ice over it, frozen and broken and frozen again, is shadowed and scaled, the ridges of the reattached plates reflecting a dark, shattered view of the rock and snow above it. One tree trunk shades it in a bold line, offsetting the delicate crackles of the rest.

Here, sounds are muted, damped in buffering, stiffened water, the sharper angles of stone and wood softened by the wrapping of former liquid. It would almost be a black and white view, achromatic, bar the sky, and even it fades to white the closer to ground it hangs. And the higher it rises, the blue turns deeper and blacker, the bowl of heaven deep and fascinating. Clouds puff through it, oddly two dimensional, a flat background almost matching the snow. And birds (are they birds or improbably large stars?) are dots of pure white, caught on the tips of trees, or lodged in the trunks.

There are bunches, tiny stands of miniature bushes, smothered with snow, that gather beside the dark circle of ice, mourners at a funeral. The dead buds turned into icy flowers shiver minutely in the wind. Other, similar stands shuffle mournfully through the valley, nestled against the sheer sides of of the gray-black rock. Each organic part of this place is in stasis, waiting for movement, warmth, or maybe just the touch of a creeping animal to rain down shimmers of shaped, ephemeral glass. 

And animals could easily play here. Skidding on the ice, climbing a snow-filled log that’s formed an easy slope between the rocky walls and the ground. The snow is wet and clumpy, but not hard to move. Youthful enthusiasm for the new and different could easily send it flying, speckles still stuck to a cold wet nose, or a claw-tipped foot. And those feet would not be any more steady on the thick covering of the pond, slipping comically, falling flat until they learned the best way to navigate such unsteady waters.

The ice would be harder to break, if water was the goal, but one hopes it would take a thinking mind long to realize that snow and ice melt, even if one sacrifices body heat for the liquid treasure.

And then it would be best to creep back to a place of snug safety, inside a cave, a nest, an old log shored up with mud and bits of vegetation. Somewhere protected from the vagaries of the weather, perhaps not warm, but warmer than outside. Waiting for it to melt away once again, and spring to life, fulfilling the promise held safely inside the ice.


End file.
